Jazz Hour in anticlimatic

It’s jazz hour on NPR. I can hear it as we speak, on low, coming from the Town Crier Radio in the kitchen. A real slow number- which are usually my favorites. A piano and a muted trumpet maybe, not much else, and in no great hurry. Late night jazz on NPR has been the closest thing to a constant that I have ever encountered in life. Just one of those things that is so appropriate and obvious as to never be questioned or changed.

Nightfall, especially the darker quieter parts of nightfall when most of our neighbors are slumbering, is femininity incarnate- the moon being one of the most ancient symbols of women- mystery and chaos; the shaded and the enveloped. Our minds, after a long day of activity and strain, can’t help but succumb to this at some point in the evening. For me, and probably for most, it’s just as the music on the radio- once very present and conscious and intentional- has dreamed itself into the background on flying trumpets and dancing pianos.